


The Infernal Machine

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, F/M, Hand Jobs, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exhausted from the hunt for Horcruxes, Harry wants to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Infernal Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Written before DH, then tweaked to make it slightly more canon-compliant.

The Horcruxes were alive.

It made perfect sense, seeing as they carried parts of a human soul. But Harry had never expected them to scream when he destroyed them, never expected the painful, anguished sound to reverberate through him, piercing his body with a truly soul-splitting noise. He would never forget the sensation that had overwhelmed him when he realised that he was effectively killing another human being. It didn't help that Hermione had kept telling him that Voldemort had long forfeited his humanity by splitting his soul. Harry felt that by destroying parts of Voldemort's soul he was committing murder.

He felt so exhausted by the experiences of the past few months that he would give anything for one night's dreamless sleep. When he stepped out of the tube station at Grimmauld Place, the balmy summer air enveloped him like smooth oily water. Harry dragged his feet slowly along the pavement, passing the Muggle house at number 11, where loud Muggle music pounded through the open window, and climbed the steps leading to the door.

The entrance hall in the house at Grimmauld Place was as dark and gloomy as ever. The elves' severed heads blinked down at him like a macabre relief and the air smelled of mould and dust. He didn't turn on the gas lamps but whispered "Lumos" and made his way down the stairs by the light of his wand. The kitchen door creaked in its hinges when he pushed it open. More than anything, Harry wanted to get his hands on the Firewhisky supply in the pantry and to reach oblivion in the only way available to him if he didn't want end up combing the shops in Knockturn Alley for the Draught of the Living Dead.

Darkness hung in the air like a blanket and Harry could almost physically feel it weighing him down. The narrow beam of light from his wand seemed almost inadequate to disperse the gloom. Putting down his bag on the floor, he reached out to collect a glass from the cupboard. In the next moment, it slipped through his fingers and shattered on the floor. Harry spun around, his wand hand shooting up. Something moved in the corner.

"Who's there?" Harry startled by the sound of his voice which sounded low and broken even to his own ears. Before the echo of his words had died down, the wand light fell on the figure slumped at the other side of the table. He saw a plump, shaking hand clutching the edge of the table, and as the beam wandered higher, Mrs. Weasley's drawn face floated into view.

"Hello, Harry, dear." She attempted a smile, but Harry saw that her lips trembled. Her eyes were red and puffed up and she looked ready to break out in tears any moment. Harry swallowed and lowered his wand, his heart pounding, and felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. Invading Mrs Weasley's privacy in this manner seemed wrong.

A short moment of silence followed, during which Harry was desperately casting for something to say and Mrs Weasley blew her nose. The light from Harry's wand, whose tip was pointing downwards, danced across the chipped, dirty stones of the kitchen floor. He cleared his throat eventually, just as Mrs Weasley whispered "Lumos" at the other side of the table, making her own wand flare up. Her face, illuminated from below, had a slightly demonic look.

"You must be very hungry," she said, walking around the table and crossing the short distance that separated her from the stove. "Have you travelled far? You look ever so pale, dear. Why didn't you bring Ron and Hermione? Are you sure you are all right?" She was talking very quickly, as though wishing to prevent him from speaking, and he was grateful. Turning her back to him, she began opening cupboards and taking out bread and butter and ham and cheese, while still continuing to talk incessantly. Harry let her words wash over him, glad that, for once, he wasn't expected to think. To act. He stood there limply in the centre of the kitchen, his arms dangling by his sides, his fingers wrapped around his wand slowly getting numb.

"There isn't much, I'm afraid, I can only offer you some sandwiches and tea," Mrs Weasley said as she turned around with a cup of tea in her hand. Harry reached out automatically, and when he took it from her hand, his fingers brushed hers for a second.

It was as though a spark had shot out of Harry's wand and ignited the air between their fingers. Harry could not suppress a gasp when Mrs Weasley opened her arms wide and pulled him close, dropping cup and saucer in the process. They landed on the floor with a clutter, and Harry sank into the warmth of Mrs Weasley's embrace. He remembered how comforting it had felt when she had held him close like that for the first time, when he was lying in the hospital wing the night Cedric died, how he had relished the warmth and the tender touch of a mother. But that night seemed so far away. He had grown up so much in the course of those last three years, and he had seen so much and had felt so much and much more intensely than a human was designed to feel.

It was good to feel something else than anger and cold and hopelessness for a change; better than good, in fact. There was Mrs Weasley’s hand on his back, her fingers clutching the fabric of his robe, there was Mrs Weasley's warm breath on his neck and there was Mrs Weasley's hair in his face. Its red no longer as vibrant as that of her daughter's hair, but the flowery scent clinging to it reminded him forcefully of Ginny.

Desire hit him unexpectedly. The memory of the kiss he and Ginny had shared on his birthday rose up again, not in his mind, but from the pit of his stomach. His hands acted of their own accord when they started moving in slow circles over Mrs Weasley's back, up to her neck, where his suddenly-sweaty palms encountered soft hair, and then down to the curve of her hip.

Mrs. Weasley's arms tightened around him and a wave of heat rose up in him, its tendrils spreading through his body, to his toes and fingers. Through the fog in his brain, he vaguely felt the woman in his arms move, move closer, move against him, until she was pressed up against him, until he could feel his own hipbones dig into her belly. His cock was fully hard now. Whenever he had snogged Ginny during the few happy weeks all those months before, he had felt embarrassed about his erections - he was sure that she would be disgusted if she knew how quickly and how often he would get hard just from touching her or looking at her or thinking of her. And never, in all those weeks, had she touched him like _that_. Like he was being touched now. Mrs Weasley's hand - older than Ginny's, but still soft and very warm - was trapped between their bodies, its palm pressed firmly against his hard-on. He could feel it burning through the many layers of fabric.

And then, the fabric was gone, and there was only heat left. There was a mouth, hot and damp, on the side of his neck, and there was the hand, hot and damp, on his cock, and there was _his_ hand, which was suddenly trapped among the heavy folds of Mrs Weasley's robes and between the heaviness of her thighs. His fingers were probing inside her, inside the heat and wetness there, damp hairs tickling the inside of his palm, a heady scent rising up between them in a cloud.

Mrs Weasley was panting, open-mouthed, against his skin, making sounds that Harry had never heard before. He had never imagined a woman could sound like that - so desperate and intense and needy. Ginny had sounded breathless and giggly, and she would make "hmm" and "mmh" noises which told him that she liked what he was doing, but he had never done _that_ , never with Ginny. Had never felt her rub her cunt against his hand like that, like she wanted him to ram his fingers inside her.

And so he did. And she cried out, and pressed down, hard, and the heat exploded inside Harry.

It was only when his head stopped spinning and his breathing calmed down, that he realised that his hand was still tucked in between Mrs Weasley's thighs and that her wetness was spreading over his fingers.

"Sorry!" Harry pulled his hand back roughly and wiping it off on his robe. "Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean …"

The heat spreading through him now had an entirely different quality. Harry's chest contracted as red-hot shame knocked his breath out of him. At some point, his wand had dropped out of his hand, but its tip had remained lit, and in its faint light he could see Mrs Weasley's hand, hovering awkwardly in the air between them, glistening with his spunk. Her head was bowed, and Harry was glad of it, because he didn't want to have to see her face, to look into her eyes and have Ginny look back at him.

Feeling was slowly returning into his numb fingers so that, stooping down, he managed to pick up his wand. His fingers were sticky. He wished he could wash them, but knew that it would be too impolite to walk over to the sink while Mrs Weasley was still in the room. The warmth and comfort of just a few minutes before had evaporated, just as had his sudden rush of lust, and all that remained was a burning deep down in his stomach.

"It wasn't your fault, Harry, dear." The sound of her voice startled him so much that he almost dropped his wand again. "Don't you worry about it. It's all going to be all right."

She reached out for his hand and he recoiled, quite involuntarily, but she flinched as though he had hit her. "Sorry," Harry said again, feeling more foolish than ever. He saw Mrs Weasley swallow, then nod, and then turn around and quietly walk to the door. She turned the door handle and disappeared in the darkness of the staircase.

And Harry remained in the gloomy kitchen, watching her leave and feeling that the last ties connecting him to his childhood had just been torn.

**Author's Note:**

> I have always been quite amused by the indignant outcry regarding Ginny's resemblance to Lily and how much Harry/Ginny smelled of unresolved mummy issues. Because if Ginny resembles someone, surely that someone is _Molly_. And there has been ample fodder for Harry/Molly in canon. To quote but a few instances:
> 
> GoF, Chap 31: "She bent down and kissed him on the cheek."
> 
> GoF, Chap. 36: "Mrs Weasley set the potion down on the bedside cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry. He had no memory of being hugged like this, as though by a mother."
> 
> HBP, Chap. 4: "'You are sweet,' beamed Mrs. Weasley."
> 
> HBP, Chap. 17: "Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms."
> 
> HBP, Chap 19: "…now Mrs. Weasley seized hold of Harry and hugged him very tightly."
> 
> And in OotP Harry leaves the party following Mrs Weasley upstairs in "The Woes of Mrs Weasley", which, as I'm sure everyone will agree, clearly indicates that wild cross-gen orgies were supposed to happen upstairs.
> 
> Reasoning thusly, I decided to write the sadly underrepresented pairing Harry/Molly myself.


End file.
